


What the Dormouse Said

by bellatemple



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-12
Updated: 2009-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series. Dean's sky is falling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Dormouse Said

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the most self-indulgent things I've written to date. And yet I still managed to clock in several research hours on it.

It seemed to Dean that the world had flattened.

Vertically, not horizontally. The sky hadn't come down against the horizon like a giant foot and squashed them all, or anything like that -- though come to think of it, the sky _always_ came down to the horizon.

And what was up with that? He remembered walking home with Sam one day in elementary school, his kid brother waving a water color painting he'd done in art in his face, explaining how all the _other_ kids always painted the sky as a blue strip across the top of the page, but he _knew_ , he'd figured it out, that the sky wasn't just a stripe across the top, that if you looked you could see that the blue came all the way down to touch the ground, and when you jumped, you just, jumped up, not even trying very hard, you did that and you were _in the sky_.

Dean jumped. Sort of. A little. He didn't feel like he was in the sky. The sky was way, way up with nothing under you but hard ground and water far away that would grab onto you as soon as it could and if it had to pull too hard, it might get mad or --

Wait, no. What was he talking about? Crap.

The sky. Right. Jump up and you're there, that's what Sam had said, too smart for his own good even in kindergarten and his teacher had _loved_ him, lavished him with stickers and good grades and ruined Sam for all of them, little bitch always telling you crazy shit like "if you jump up you're in the sky", when everyone knew there was no sky in motel bathrooms.

Right. That was why he didn't feel it, the being in the sky. He was inside. That made sense.

So, the world was flat, but not, like, paper flat. Like wall flat. Like this bottle, here, this green bottle, he could look at it, and he could _see_ it. It was completely fake. It had, like, layers, right? Of color. Here it was, like, white, right? Where the light reflected. And here it was almost black, it was _just that green_ , and in between were all these gradations of color, and he could -- he could see the edges of it, right? Like one of those paint by number things. This was where number 4 green stopped and number 5 green started. It didn't blend, not like it was supposed to. Dean bet if he reached out to touch it, he wouldn't even get there. Just bump into whatever the bastard was painted on, because the world had gone _flat_ , man. Like, totally flat.

Dean reached out, and sure enough, his fingers bumped into something long before they could get to the bottle. It didn't feel like a wall or anything, though. It was too smooth, for one, like, like glass, and there was something in the way, some dude's hand was there _in the way_ and what the hell was that, couldn't the guy figure out that Dean was trying to prove something extremely important and scientific, here? He was in the --

Oh, hey. No. Right. Dean knew this one.

It was a mirror.

A mirror in the sky -- no. Mirror on the wall because he was inside, remember? He'd already figured that one out. He was in a motel bathroom, and the beer bottle looked flat because it _was_ flat. Just a reflection in the mirror.

Fuck, he was shitfaced. He coulda sworn he'd only had the one beer, though. One beer shouldn't fuck him up like this. That wasn't how this worked.

What the hell was he doing in the bathroom, anyway?

Oh, shit, right, shower. He was fucking freezing, too, so Sammy better not have taken all the hot water. If Sammy took all the hot water again, he'd -- he'd -- okay, so he wouldn't kill him. Wouldn't do any good to kill a kid like Sammy, he'd just look at you with the big fat puppy eyes and be all "whyyyy Dean, whyyyy did you kill me? I just wanted to show you how the sky is actually _pushing down on you right now like a giant foot_ " -- no. That wasn't it. He couldn't kill Sammy because -- because -- because then Sammy couldn't tell him what he _did_ with the hot water and then Dean would never get his nice, hot, wet -- mmmmmmm.

Shower, right, he was thinking about showers, here, not that other nice hot wet tight --

Focus, Winchester.

So, right, he couldn't kill Sam because if he killed Sam he'd never get laid again. That was important to know. And he was in a motel bathroom. To take a shower. Because if he was in the shower he was in the water, and if he was in the water he couldn't be in the sky, right? That was just, like, logic. Everyone knew that.

He found the shower knobs -- and they were all gradated and paint-by-numbery too, weren't they, what the fuck, who'd come and painted-by-numbers his bathroom? It was probably Sammy, that little twerp, all self important with his "the sky is on the ground!" and his water color paintings and stickers from his teachers and maybe he'd just _hit_ Sam a little. He could totally do that. He'd say it was training.

Training was important.

What was he doing?

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Shower. He turned the water on.

The water. The water. The water so wet. . . . Man he loved that show. Sammy never appreciated that show, never appreciated how completely fucking funny Brak and Space Ghost were in their little TV station on the moon or whatever -- they weren't in the sky, they were _past_ the sky. They were so above the sky that the sky totally wished it could _be_ Space Ghost and Brak and whatsisface, you know, the guy, the one with the helmet thing -- Magneto. Was Magneto on Space Ghost?

Why was he wet?

Fuck.

He was so gonna kill Sammy for this one.

* * *

Time dilated around Dean.

Like, _around_ Dean. Like Dean was in the middle of some kind of time whirlpool and it just kept circling around and around and around him like the water in the drain, only the time didn't swirl down or only one way -- _unless you're below the equator,_ Sam would say, because he's Sammy and he said stupid shit like that, like where you were on the planet changed the direction that time flowed -- time flowed --

Shit.

Anyway, time wasn't flowing the way it was _supposed_ to, that was the point, right? Like, it just kept circling around on him. He just kept thinking the same things over and over again and watching the same moments over and over again and he couldn't get the hell _out_ because it was too slippery, so he just sat there, ass in a puddle, boots dangling in the air over the edge of the bathtub going all blurry through the shower curtain and _watched_ the time go around and around and around like the water down the drain.

It was making him dizzy, so he decided to watch the water from the shower head, instead.

Heh. _Head_.

There was this joke, right? Like, he'd seen it, on TV. Not the joke, you know, 'cause you can't see jokes unless they're like comic strips or something but it was this guy, and he was talking about . . . he was talking about . . . girls. In showers. With those, those shower heads, you know, the ones, the ones with the dials that went around and around like time did unless you were on the wrong side of the equator and then you were upside down anyway, so what the fuck did you know?

Girls. Head.

Fuck, that was funny.

The water from the shower head was _fascinating_.

Seriously. Why had he never watched this, before? He could actually _see_ individual droplets forming, forming, forming, then falling, falling straight at him, and getting bigger and bigger when they fell, so he reached out to catch it.

He missed.

How could he miss? Seriously, it was _right_ there, he could see it, it grew and fell and grew and then he -- oh. That was it. It went back up, 'cause it had to fall again. It was that time thingy. The whirlpool.

Dammit, he hated whirlpools. They never broke down and that jackass had to keep wearing that stupid uniform even though he didn't have anything to do -- wait, no, that was Maytag.

"Dean."

Holy shit, who said that?

"Leave some water for the rest of us!"

Fucking shit. Dean tugged the shower curtain up against his chest like a blanket and peered around the edge. He heard that, right? It wasn't just the roar of the water -- and man, that was some loud ass water right there, he didn't mind telling you -- was it? He'd definitely heard it. Someone calling his name.

"Dean!"

There it was again! There wasn't anyone in the bathroom, though. Just, you know, mirror, sink, toilet, beer bottle. . . .

Man, that was funny. The way the lights reflected off the beer bottle kinda made it look like it had eyes. Like it was the tiny green eye-stalks on top of the head of the toilet, and the bowl and lid were the toilet's mouth, right, like, like, that douchebag on TV when they were little, the one with the talking toilet puppet, only, like, super creepy.

Wait, maybe that was an armchair.

Anyway, it totally looked just like that, like the lid was going to open up and talk and show rows and rows of teeth, because there wasn't a damned thing out there that was fucking creepy and didn't have teeth, right, like, giant teeth with _fangs_ , like that black dog they went after when he was fourteen, that sucker had some huge fangs, the size of his forearm.

Dean bet the toilet had fangs like that. Except, you know, that was dumb, 'cause toilets didn't have fangs. Toilets weren't puppet monsters with eye-stalks, that was just the reflection of the lights on the beer bottle, and Dean was freaking himself out because he was fucking _shitfaced_ here, man, I mean, look at him, curled up in the tub trying to catch water droplets and thinking the toilet had fangs, when the toilet was a toilet, of course, of course, unless the toilet of course of course was the famous Mr. Ed --

"Dean!"

Dean squeaked and lashed out at the toilet with one booted foot, and then the door started to, like, have a seizure.

No, no, doors didn't have seizures. Not even faked seizures like Sammy sometimes did when they needed a distraction real quick. Something was _hitting_ the door. Something was on the other side of that door and it was hitting it and shouting his name and _oh fucking hell_ Dean didn't have a weapon.

He didn't have a weapon. He totally hadn't brought a weapon in to the bathroom and how fucking _stupid_ was that? He was completely vulnerable in here! There was only one exit, it was totally indefensible, and it was where he was _naked_ for godssake, if he needed a weapon _anywhere_ it was in the fucking bathroom and Dean didn't have a weapon on him.

Dad was going to _kill_ him.

"Dean!" said the thing on the other side of the door again and suddenly Dad was there. The door was open and Dad was there and shit, he was going to kill Dean because Dean was the dumb ass who'd forgotten to bring a weapon to the bathroom so he could kill the thing that was beating on the door and calling his name.

Except, no, wait. The door was _open_ now. So there was nothing beating on it any more. So the thing -- the thing -- the thing had to be in the room right? In the room with him and Mr. Ed the Talking Toilet and Dad and Dad was going to _kill_ him for this.

But, no, wait, that wasn't right, right? Dad didn't kill people. Dad was one of the good guys. He was a hero. Heroes didn't kill people, they saved people, so if Dad was going to kill him that meant -- that meant -- that meant Dean was bad, right? Dean was evil.

He didn't feel evil.

On the other hand, he was still thinking that Mr. Ed the Toilet had a beer bottle for eyes, so what the fuck did he know?

"Dean, what the hell?"

That sounded rhetorical. And Dad didn't kill Dean for not answering (but Dad didn't _kill_ people, right? Right?), just looked around the room, eyes landing on Mr. Ed the Toilet.

Shit, Dad was going to kill the toilet. He strode across the bathroom, still not looking at Dean as he shrank back against the wall and tried to pull the curtain around himself as a shield -- without getting distracted by the way the water from the shower swirled down along the plastic in little creeks and brooks and wondering if they would babble if he leaned in close enough -- and oh shit, Dad was talking to him again.

"What the hell is this?"

Okay, that one wasn't so rhetorical, judging by the way Dad was brandishing Mr. Ed's eyes -- no, the beer bottle, remember? The toilet was just a toilet -- in Dean's face.

Dean swallowed. "I only had one."

He was really pretty sure that was true, though it didn't explain why Dean was so completely shitfaced.

"One? You're trying to shower with your clothes on, Dean, you're --" Dad leaned in closer, and Dean's eyes locked onto his father's stubbly beard. "Are you high?" Dad asked.

Oh shit, was he? He'd jumped, after all, and Sammy had said when you jumped you were in the sky, and yeah, that was a long time ago but Sam tended to be right on these things and what if you jumped and you _stayed_ in the sky and all this time Dean still hadn't landed again yet --

No, wait, he was sitting down. He was pretty sure that meant he was on the ground.

"No sir."

Dad grabbed Dean's chin and pulled his face forward. If he pulled too hard, he might pull Dean's whole face _off_ and then he'd look like a real idiot, wouldn't he? Not that it mattered much, because Dad was totally going to kill him, anyway, remember? Dean had already figured that out.

Jesus, but Dad looked weird. He had all these little patterns in his skin that Dean had never noticed before. Little black lines of hairs and freckles and moles and just -- just -- _patterns_. Like scales or something.

His dad didn't have scales.

 _This wasn't his dad._

Dean wrenched himself backward, knocking his head against the shower tiles, which kinda hurt, but Dean had bigger things to concern himself with right now, like the fact that the thing that was pounding on the door was pretending to be his father and grabbing at him and Dean _didn't have a weapon_.

He swung out his fist and raised his foot at the same time and managed to drive Dad -- the thing -- back a bit, towards Mr. Ed, who if he really wanted Dean to believe in him would open his big toilet mouth and show off those glistening fangs by sinking them right into the Dad-thing's _ass_ , right?

Except it was just a _toilet_ and shit, maybe Dean really was high.

"Dad?" said a voice from the door, and all thoughts that maybe Dad was on to something and Dean was being a giant jackass playing around in the bathtub vanished, because Sam was there and Sam didn't know that the Dad-thing wasn't Dad and the Dad-thing was turning to him and _Dean couldn't let that happen._

"Sam," said the Dad-thing. "Help me with your brother."

Dean threw himself out of the bathtub and onto the Dad-thing's back.

* * *

Things went really weird from there.

The Dad-thing and Sam each had one of his arms, and no matter how much Dean insisted to Sam that the Dad-thing wasn't Dad and Sam didn't listen to Dad _anyway_ and _For godssake, Sam, help me out here!_ Sam refused to listen. Dean couldn't get his arms to coordinate properly for an escape -- the right one seemed to keep wanting to wander off, and Dean blamed the Dad-thing, since that was the one he was holding.

Fucking right arm. Fucking traitor was what it was. He didn't need it, anyway. Him and Lefty, that was where it was at. Him and Lefty and Sam, and that was all he needed to get rid of the Dad-thing and find his real Dad.

Jesus _fuck_ , it was freezing.

Dean turned his head towards Sam again, thinking that maybe _this_ time when he explained it, his brother would listen to him. Damn, Sam looked weird from this angle. He had a really big head. Like, really, really big, and he was still growing so he was all scrawny and spindly and it was kind of like having a giant talking lollipop for a brother, wasn't it? A lollipop with tiny, faint, shifty scale lines crawling along his arms.

Shit. _That wasn't Sam either._

"What the fuck did you do to my family?!" Dean demanded, and the Sam-thing and the Dad-thing wrestled him towards the bed. The Sam-thing turned its giant lollipop eyes on Dean, all glittery and wobbly like one of those damned cartoon characters and said "Dean, it's me," like Dean was going to fall for that.

Fucker was a _lollipop_ for fuckssake. Dean knew better than to listen to those.

"Get off me!"

The Dad-thing and the Sam-thing exchanged telepathic conversation above Dean's head, and if Dean could get his hands free he could grab onto the thoughts as they whizzed by and rip them apart so the things couldn't plot against him, but lollipops were really strong and sticky and so Lefty was totally out of commission now, too, and Dean was all alone with no arms and two things that wanted him to think they were his family.

God, what if they were dead? What if they were _dead_ , and Dean had been getting shitfaced in the bathroom and thinking about skies and toilets and shit while _Sam and Dad were being killed?_

It was all his fault.

Like hell.

Dean threw himself sideways into a twist and managed to knock the lollipop off balance with a popping noise, like when you flicked your thump out of your cheek, and Dean's arm went numb. The Dad-thing cursed and yelled at the Sam-thing and wrapped its giant, bear-like arms around Dean's torso and threw him -- actually _threw him_ \-- and maybe that meant Dean was in the sky again, 'cause if jumping meant you were there, then surely getting thrown would, too, that was _practically the same thing_ , except he was still inside and there was no sky inside -- onto the bed.

And sat on him.

Dean growled, figuring that might be the Dad-thing's native language, since it was so into bear hugs and all, but the Dad-thing ignored him and told the Sam-thing to "grab his legs" and fumbled Dean's arms about like he was trying to work the controls on a bulldozer.

"What did you do with them?" Dean demanded again, even as his shoulder _popped_ and his arm came back on line and Dean belatedly realized that maybe his shoulder'd been dislocated, and, oh yeah, that _fucking hurt_.

* * *

He kinda blacked out for a second or something, because the next thing he knew, his hands were cuffed over his head and the Dad-thing and the Sam-thing were having a little strategy session over by the table in the kitchenette.

"I don't know," the Sam-thing was saying, and dude, that sucker -- ha! Get it? _Sucker_ \-- was going the extra mile, because it totally had Sam's little whine voice _down_. "I stayed after school for drama, and by the time I got home he was already in the bathroom."

It knew Sam's schedule. Mother _fucker_ , it knew Sam's schedule. How long had these things been stalking them? Shit, how long had Dad been not-Dad without Dean noticing? Maybe that was why Dean was still so shitfaced, maybe the Dad-thing had been there all along, faking going on hunts and slowly poisoning Dean to get him ready for its thingy master plan. Dad could have been dead for weeks. Come to think of it, the whole motel room was starting to look weird and scaley and wrong, which Dean should have noticed before, too. Maybe -- maybe the things weren't shapeshifters. Maybe they were some kind of infection. Some crawling, scaley thing, and Dean was immune and that's what the Dad-thing and the Sam-thing were talking about, why Dean wasn't turning into scaley-things like he was supposed to, just getting shitfaced instead. . . .

Maybe his family wasn't totally screwed yet.

Dean wriggled on the bed, his wet clothes sticking and sucking at his skin distractingly as he tried to work out how to get out of the cuffs. They were just regular cuffs, as far as he could see -- well, paint-by-number cuffs, but that was part of the shitfaced thing, wasn't it? Or was the paint-by-numbers the first stage of the infection? The scaley thing that -- _that was totally starting on his right hand._

He wasn't immune. He was changing. Oh god, the things had gotten him and he was _changing_ and he had to get out, get to Bobby or Pastor Jim or someone who would know to kill him if he went evil the way Dad and Sammy had but might know how to stop it, how to get it all _back_ to the way it was supposed to be. He just -- he just -- he just had to get rid of his right hand, first.

He hadn't noticed his shoulder dislocating. He was willing to bet he could get his thumb out of whack without having to worry too much, either.

Oh. Fuck. No, that fucking hurt, didn't it.

* * *

He lost time again. It went swirling away down the drain in the bathroom where the drops grew fatter and fatter and fell through the sky like a giant foot coming down to crush the horizon.

There were socks on his hands.

Hot damn, he must be _really_ fucking shitfaced if he'd tried to put his socks on his hands.

The Sam-thing was holding his right arm while the Dad-thing wrapped duck tape around the sock and Dean's wrist. Shit. No. That wasn't Dean, then. The Dad-thing had figured him out and was taking away his fingers. Dean couldn't do much of anything without his fingers.

He threw himself into a seizure-styled fury, hissing and yanking and thrashing on the bed until the Sam-thing had to let go and sit on his legs again, but it was no use. The Dad-thing got Dean's hands immobilized and chained to the bed again, and this time they were tying down Dean's feet, too. All Dean was doing was exhausting himself, so he finally stopped, frozen and freezing and panting, trying to save his strength.

And he mentioned freezing, right? Because it was fucking _balls-ass_ cold in here.

Must be some cold-blooded lizardy infection thing.

The Dad-thing was leaning over him again, staring Dean hard in the eye, using some kind of eye-laser tractor beam thing to hold him there because Dean. Couldn't. Look away. The Dad-thing rested its hand on his forehead like Dean was something precious to it.

"You need to calm down," the Dad-thing said. "Tell me what happened today, okay? We need to know what happened to you so we can fix it."

Dean's chest shuddered. His arms were throbbing and his hand felt like it was the size of a basketball and he was sweating and frozen at the same time and he could _feel_ it now, the way the poison was slithering through him, changing his cells and altering his brain until he was just like the Dad-thing and the Sam-thing, a Dean-thing with evil intent, out to bring down the sky.

The Dad-thing could make it stop. Dean knew it could. Might, even, if he asked.

But Dean wouldn't beg. He refused to beg.

So he lay there, shuddering, breathing in harsh pants through his nose while the scales erupted underneath his skin and the Dad-thing and the Sam-thing watched.

* * *

"Dean."

Dean twitched, his arms jumping against the chains. There was light streaming in through the motel window, bright and cheery, birds tweeting away their morning routines.

He must have passed out.

"Dean."

Dean blinked sluggishly, twitching again. His right arm was locking up, shooting little icicles through his body. His hands, blissfully, were numb.

His father sat on the edge of the bed, a sports bottle in hand, little plastic spout pointed at Dean's mouth. "I need you to drink this."

Dean stared at him, zeroing in on the skin of his face, searching for scales.

Nothing. It was just his dad.

He opened his mouth. His tongue felt slimy and rank.

"I think you're just about past it," his dad said. Dean glanced past him and saw Sam, his head back to its normal, brainiac size. The kid looked exhausted.

Dad slipped the plastic spout of the bottle into Dean's mouth and tipped it gently, squeezing tiny amounts of water onto Dean's tongue and waiting for him to swallow before giving him a bit more. Small sips. Didn't want to get sick.

"You ready to tell us what happened?" asked Dad.

Dean groaned and pressed his head back into the pillow. He had no fucking clue.

Dad nodded, half turning to set the bottle down on the bedside table. He looked worse than Sam.

"I'll tell you, then. You went out with some friends after work yesterday, right? Your boss saw you leave. You hung out for awhile, had a beer or two."

Dad paused. For dramatic effect, maybe, or just waiting for Dean to fill in the gaps. Dean glanced away and nodded. Dad sighed.

"I can't know for sure, not without tests or hospitals or an actual confession, but. You were pretty clearly under the influence of something, Dean. I'm pretty sure it was LSD."

Dean groaned. That -- Jesus. Just . . . _Jesus_. People did that for _fun?_

"Bad trip," Sam added helpfully, taking Dean's shock and continued silence for not understanding. Sam did that a lot, these days. Assumed Dean didn't know things. Dean would've flicked him off, except he still had socks on his hands. Dad waved Sam off without turning.

"I take it from the look on your face," he said, "that it wasn't intentional."

Dean shook his head, then groaned when the room took a half-turn around the whirlpool time had been having such a grand old time on. Dad ran his hand over Dean's head before shifting to unlock the handcuffs and tear off the socks, sending fresh pain through Dean's shoulders and neck as he moved. Dean groaned again.

"You need better friends," Sam observed.

"Sam," said Dad. "Go get the tiger balm, then pack our things. We're leaving as soon as Dean's set to travel."

Sam's mouth dropped open, and Dean thought for a moment that Sam was somehow going to argue. That Dean had been drugged by people claiming to be his friends and Sam was still going to whine about leaving. But Sam's mouth snapped back shut after a moment and he turned toward the bathroom.

Dean had the momentary image of Sam commiserating with Mr. Ed the Talking Toilet ("You think that's bad? Well, your dad totally stole my eye-stalks,") and snorted. Then groaned yet again when Dad started to gently lower his arms.

"Dean," said Dad. He was using his serious voice, not the one reserved for orders, but the real _dad_ voice which Dean had only heard a handful of times before. It was the "you've done good" voice, and that just -- that didn't make any fucking sense. Dean had flipped out and tried to -- to hunt Dad and Sam. There was nothing good about it.

"Dean," said Dad again, and this time he put his hand on Dean's face, turning it so Dean had to look at him. "You were pretty fucked up, last night."

Yeah, Dad. No fucking shit.

"You were fucked up, and you saw a threat. You tried to protect Sam, and you tried to protect yourself."

From an imaginary snake virus.

Dad patted his cheek gently. "Whatever else that says about you -- and I'm pretty sure it says some fucked up shit -- it says you're looking out for Sam." Another pat, this one much, much firmer. "Next time do it by not finding yourself such dumbass friends, you got me?"

"Yes sir."

Dad nodded. "Good. Soon as you're feeling mobile, I want you to pack your stuff. Leave out your running shoes. You're tailing the car for the first five miles."

 _Fuck._ "I think I liked you better as an evil lizard creature."

Dad laughed, and Dean couldn't help it -- he joined in.

A moment later, Sam came back out of the bathroom, tiger balm in hand, and looked at both of them like they'd lost their minds.

And, well, maybe Dean could blame it on still being slightly stoned, but that was _even funnier_.

The End


End file.
